Inner City Strength by Dwight Slaughter

Thursday, June 30, 2011

PJ Jones began writing Romance Novel in the spring of 2009 when she was seriously ill, thinking that this book would be her last dying legacy for mankind. After you read this book, you will probably wonder if she was trying to seal her fate in hell. Who knows? But PJ Jones has conquered her illness and is much better now. But you probably don't care, as long as her writing is funny. PJ Jones is also an avid reader of real romance novels. So why does she poke fun of them? Consider it comic relief.

What inspired me to write ROMANCE NOVEL…by PJ Jones

First off, I’m an avid romance reader and not ashamed to admit it. So what would inspire me to write a parody of my favorite genre? My need to laugh and to make others laugh. It’s much cheaper than therapy and it doesn’t damage your kidneys like prescription pain killers, unless, of course, you end up laughing too hard, which, I am told, has happened to a number of my readers. And, by the way, didn’t you just love my previous long-winded run-on sentence preceded by an incomplete sentence? Laughing is also much easier than editing grammar, which I hate.

It’s amazing how a writer can discover her funny bone when wallowing in self-pity. That’s how I discovered my twisted and crude sense of humor. Over two years ago, I was suffering from an unexplained health crisis, and since laughter has always been my best medicine, writing ROMANCE NOVEL was my source of therapy.

Is the tax collector banging on your door right now? Does your husband refuse to lower the toilet seat? Do you burn Granny’s famous casserole recipe every time you make it? If so, then you need some inspiration. You need to laugh.

Have you read ROMANCE NOVEL? If not, please don’t make me sick FLABIO on you. He’s carries a big and beefy grudge against anyone who doesn’t fawn over his virile body and macho moobs. I guarantee, if you are currently lacking inspiration, FLABIO, DEADWARD, SMELLA and SNAKE just may find a way to tickle your funny bone. PJ

Smella Rosepetal must find a millionaire husband to finance her baby’s heart transplant. She flies home to her deputy father’s ranch in Pitchforks, Texas, where she falls in love with Deadward Forest, a wealthy environmentalist vampire.When a deranged murderer is on the loose in Pitchforks, killing romance heroines, Deadward assumes Smella would be safer without him. Smella turns to her childhood friend, Snake Long, for comfort. But Snake doesn’t have the money to save her baby, so Smella places herself in peril in a desperate hunt for a rich husband.Time is running out for Smella’s baby, and she must escape from the Australian Outback and face down Flabio, an overweight and disgruntled, aspiring cover model, plus enraged vampire wives and their homosexual, vampire, cowboy husbands, a jealous were-gerbil, James Bond, a drunk rodeo clown and Smella’s strange boyfriend who wants to drain her blood, yet is repulsed by her smell.

“Snake,” Smella cooed while trailing her fingertip along his bulging biceps. “There’s something I need to ask you.”

His eyes widened, and he looked at her with a goofy, hopeful gleam in his eyes. “You want me to be the father of your illegitimate child?”

“Don’t be silly.” She swatted his shoulder while rolling her eyes. “I was wondering if you knew anything about Deadward Forest.”

Snake winced, a gleam of anger flashing across his features. “Why do you want to know about pasty face?”

“That’s not very nice, Snake,” she scolded. “Maybe he’s allergic to Vitamin D.”

“Are you joking?” He spat. “Deadward is a bloodsucker, just like the rest of his family.”

“Bloodsuckers? Really?” Smella perked, the visualization of heaping wads of money making her mouth water. “So that’s how he got rich. Do they handle personal injuries or divorces?”

“Neither, Smella.” Snake shook his head, while jumping out of the truck and slamming the imaginary door. “You need to stay away from The Forests,” he raged, before sweeping Smella into a passionate embrace. “Let me take care of you and the little bastard,” he begged, his eyes turning dark, thunderous.

Mouth agape, Smella stared at Snake. His body was large, strong and warm. She could get lost in his liquid molten gaze. Oh, if only he was rich and white. But now was not the time to be distracted by secondary heroes. She needed a man who could save little Wally.

“Do you have the money to pay for my baby’s heart surgery?” she rasped.

“No,” he said on an exhale, as if his chest had been crushed with the admission.

“Then forget it, Snake!” Smella pushed away, trying hard to ignore her feelings for him as she bemoaned the fact that friendship sex would count as a strike against her virginity. “I’ve already made up my mind.” She spoke without conviction then bit hard on her knuckles in an effort to quell her raging sexual hormones.

“Besides,” she confessed, “even though I don’t know much about Deadward, I’m already irrevocably and unconditionally in love with him.”